


Remember Me When The Rainbow Falls

by loperty



Series: Rewrites [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boston Marathon bombing, Canon-Typical Violence, Family Bonding, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Memory Alteration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:29:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26039482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loperty/pseuds/loperty
Summary: Benjamin Franklin once said, “Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”He is not the first nor was he the last to use this idea to illustrate the collective inability of humans to keep their mouth shut; the general gist being that people cannot trust each other to keep other’s personal information to themselves without being unable to speak– in this example, dead.This doesn’t stop the creation of secrets, or even the sharing of secrets in full confidence.Rewrite of the earlier work of the same title
Series: Rewrites [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1890202
Kudos: 14





	1. Askaskwii

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Remember Me When the Rainbow Falls...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3297806) by [loperty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loperty/pseuds/loperty). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a lot of names, bear with me!
> 
> IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE:  
> Owen:: Commonwealth of Massachusetts  
> Taylor:: State of New Hampshire  
> Alfred:: USA, canon Hetalia character  
> Arthur:: England, canon Hetalia character  
> Matthew:: Canada, canon Hetalia character  
> Urien:: Ireland  
> Francis:: France, canon Hetalia character  
> Taimur "Tom":: State of New York  
> Aidan:: State of New Jersey  
> Nathan:: Ontario  
> José:: Mexico
> 
> MENTIONED:  
> Samantha "Sam":: State of Connecticut  
> Victoria:: State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations  
> Sarah:: State of Maine  
> Zachary:: State of Vermont  
> Evan:: State of North Dakota  
> Addison:: State of South Dakota  
> Chloe:: Commonwealth of Virginia

Relative immortality really ends up boiling down to a set routine, Owen rationalizes as he jogs toward the capital limits. This marathon, for example, has been around since 1897, only about 116 years. Compared to Owen’s 235 years, it’s only about half of his unnatural lifetime. But it still is a very monumental part of Owen’s life.

On the other hand, he had used a chamber pot for almost half of his life and did not have difficulty transferring over to the indoor plumbing when it was invented. And he certainly didn’t miss  _ dealing  _ with the chamber pot. Though, could that be largely in part to it being in the earlier half of his life and not the half that he is currently living?

Regardless–  _ regardless–  _ missing the marathon was not something he enjoyed on those days that he had to in the past. And he’s certainly not missing it now, his capital city is looming closer and, with it, his siblings at the finish line.

He’s lagging behind this year; Vicky had pulled ahead of him at about 20k and Sarah had pulled ahead through Heartbreak Hill while Taylor had only recently made it a few dozen steps ahead.

Owen’s not quite sure  _ why _ he’s lagging. He has never been a fast runner, but he has normally always been if not in-step than right behind Vicky and Sam in past races. He keeps getting lost in his own head which is probably why Taylor keeps turning to look back at him. He’s running math problems and science equations through his head to try and keep focused.

Did you know that sound travels about 243 kilometers per second at 20℃? That’s around 747mph at 68℉. And today, in Boston, at around 3 PM, it is only 47℉, which means that sound travels at around 752mph.

So, when the bombs go off on Copley Square, he hears them 30 seconds after the fact.

There’s a moment where nothing seems real.

He stops running, joining his marathoners as they slow and all frown at the direction of the sound. There’s a rushing sound in his ears and he both feels and hears his heart skip a beat

Owen thinks he makes eye contact with Taylor before he feels the pain.

It’s a searing whiteout of pain and he falls to his knees, mouth flying open in a horrible effort to bring oxygen into his burning lungs. The woman he has been running beside– Susan– kneels beside him, a gentle hand on his back between his shoulder blades. And if she is talking to him, he doesn’t hear her.

His heart skips a beat again, and he knows that he shouldn’t brace or tense against the pain, but he does and the second wave of pain is enough to knock him over to his left side. Gentle hands guide his head to the floor and he strains to open his eyes.

Over him, Taylor is leaning down, her cell phone pressed to her ear. She’s talking, but her words are muddled. Oh, and she has a twin. That’s nice. Owen thought they only had two sets of twins, but they must have three, and Taylor’s is identical to her, which is new and interesting since Sarah looks nothing like Owen and Addison keeps dying her hair so as not to match Evan.

A lot more hands are touching him now that Taylor and her twin have finished their call. His friend Susan is holding his head still. There’s a moment where he is airborne and then he is not anymore and Susan is not being nice anymore as she yells in his face and Taylor starts to cry.

Owen doesn’t like dealing with his sisters when they cry, so he decides he should take a little nap.

* * *

They’ve all just settled back into their seats after their ten-minute break when Alfred’s cell phone starts to ring with the, frankly offending, noise of a banjo. All eyes swivel to him as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, frowning at the caller ID. Matthew, to his left, pinches his eyebrows together in confusion.

Alfred accepts the call, ignoring all the attention the rest of the silent conference is giving him. Germany, at the front of the room, looks like he is experiencing a hernia. Alfred doesn’t even try to stand and excuse himself from the room, just answers with a curt, “Yes?”

It is silent and the absence of noise is more apparent as everyone tries to listen to the conversation. Northern Mexico leans around Alfred to look at Matthew, his eyebrows raised. Matthew shakes his head back.

Alfred stands suddenly and starts shoving papers into his briefcase. “I’ll be right there,” he says. “Don’t move.”

And hangs up.

It isn’t until he has pushed most of his papers into his bag that he looks up at the collected conference. He jumps a little, as though he had forgotten where he was. Urien, to Arthur’s right and across the table from Alfred, is not the only one to lean in further.

“Um,” Alfred says. He glances around the room before focusing on Germany. “There has been– an incident of national security has come up that I must address rapidly. I… I–”

Matthew places a gentle hand on his brother’s lower arm. “Al?” he asks quietly, but it echoes in the silent room regardless. “What happened?”

Alfred looks at his brother and he looks lost and alone in ways Arthur had never seen on the young nation’s face before. “Boston was bombed. I have to go.”

Matthew straightens up and opens his mouth in an ‘o’ of understanding. “The marathon?” Alfred nods. “Who was there?”

Alfred closes his eyes and breathes out of his nose forcefully, “Everyone. I have to go.”

Matthew pales and grabs Alfred’s arm roughly, standing now as well.  _ “Everyone? _ Al-!”

He takes his arm out of Matthew’s grip and presses his fingers on either side of his nose, glasses pushing up to his hairline. “No. No. Not  _ everyone  _ everyone. Just-” and here Alfred waves a hand about, his eyes still screwed shut, “everyone over there.”

His brother nods like that inane comment makes sense. The Mexico’s also have a considering look on their faces. Matthew drops his volume lower so that Arthur can barely hear him. “Does your boss know?”

“He will soon.” Alfred on the other hand is not aware enough to lower his voice.

“Then who called you?”

“Taylor, she was with Owen– and he just– Matt, I have to  _ go. _ ”

“You should call your boss–”

_ “Matt.” _

“You know I’m right. Call your boss and call Tom to cover you here.”

“I don’t want–”

“You  _ have  _ to. You have a  _ nation  _ to care for, Alfred.”

The two have a stare-off, Alfred’s hands clenching and unclenching as though he’d rather punch his way out of this, but knows that Matthew matches him in strength and bests him in cunning. The rest of the room is silent, not wanting to break the moment.

Alfred reaches for his phone and angrily brings it to his ear.

The room collectively holds its breath.

The call ends up in voicemail, evident by Alfred pinching the bridge of his nose and saying, “Tom, pick up your phone. I need you at the UN building.  _ Now _ .”

Matthew is busy typing on his personal phone as well and when he finishes that, he starts packaging up his papers. Alfred largely doesn’t respond to this, instead, he makes a second call. He leaves much the same message, this time to an ‘Aidan.’ The third call is the only one not to go to voicemail. Alfred is now trying to keep his voice down, but he is not naturally quiet so his voice carries.

“Hey Chloe, we have a parallel in the Old Town. I need you to get through to Tom or Aidan and everyone for me. Thanks. I’ll send updates.”

He then turns to Germany again and dips his head once respectfully. “I apologize for the interruption. I am needed elsewhere. I request that everyone remain in this room until further notice. I am attempting to contact a representative that will remain here in my place to take notes for me. He has the same clearance level as me and– Tom.”

All heads swiveled to the front of the conference rooms where two young men stood in the doorway. The first, a sandy-orange haired boy with one flyaway curl at the top of his head much like Alfred, seems to guard himself against their eyes and he walks the short distance to Alfred, his counterpart, a much lighter-skinned boy with dark brown hair pulled back into a ponytail at the base of his neck, follows behind with a much more relaxed air.

“Alfred,” the first man says and then holds up a cell phone. “I got your voicemail.” 

Alfred just stares at the two men by the door and Germany takes one step toward them. This is a secure area and very little of their people are allowed to even be in the hallway. And especially in Alfred’s house, this is heavily enforced.

In an odd moment of identical synchronization, the two new men raise up a badge and turn toward Germany. The badge looks identical to the one around Arthur’s neck, the color as the only difference. The color on the newcomers’ badges looks strikingly similar to the ones given to micronations. But America doesn’t have any micronations– aside from Molossia, who upon his introduction to the United Nations in 1978, and violently and repulsively left such an impression that Alfred had not brought him back since.

Germany steps closer, to examine the badges, but Alfred gets in his way. As soon as Alfred is in front of them, they tuck the badges smoothly back into their coat pockets. “They’re authorized to be here.”

Germany stares at Alfred for a long moment before visibly washing his hands of the situation.

Nodding, Alfred turns to the two gentlemen and pulls them to the side of the room, whispering quietly. Not soon after that, another man enters through the doorway, looking almost like the spitting image of Matthew that Arthur has to do a double-take. This third mystery guest barely glances around the room before approaching and sitting in Matthew’s vacated seat. Matthew barely registers this and hands over his briefcase before, in a much louder tone than any Arthur has ever heard him use, addressing Germany;

“I will be accompanying Alfred. This is Nathan, he has the same clearance and is prepared to present my research for the group.”

Nathan looks up quickly and mutters a “Hello” as he tucks the same badge the other men were just brandishing around his neck before looking back down at the papers he is sorting.

Germany frowns at this and opens his mouth to question it. Francis, next to Arthur, shifts in his chair as though his interest has only just now been piqued. Arthur is willing to agree with him there; why would Matthew need to leave the conference if this was only a matter of  _ national  _ security and not one of  _ international _ security.

Alfred’s team huddle disperses and the two men face the group again before Germany can make more than a disapproving hum. Alfred has a hand on both of their shoulders and he introduces them to the group, “This is Aidan and Tom, they will be your point people while I am gone. Listen to them. I need to leave now.”

With that and passing over his briefcase to the sandy-haired man, Alfred turns on his heel and marches out of the conference room. The two men cross to his vacated chair, nodding to Matthew as they pass by, and situate themselves. The darker-haired boy grabs a second chair from the side of the room and sits it between Northern Mexico and the other man. Once they were situated, they look up with identical, forced grins.

It took less than a minute for Arthur to decide he was not going to stay here and watch teenagers play model UN. That and he was not about to let Alfred get away with that non-explanation so easily. He stood rather quietly, but he still caught Francis side-eyeing him. Feigning the need to refill his water, Arthur left the conference room in hot pursuit of his former colonies.

* * *

“So it’s just New England?” Matt asks as he races down the stairs toward the lobby after Alfred.

Alfred doesn’t pause and Matt thinks, with some trepidation, that he is planning to run all the way to Boston instead of using a more sustainable route. “Yes. Everyone else either watches the marathon from home or they don’t watch it.”

“Ok, so we know where Taylor and Owen are.”

“Sam and Zach would have been at the finish line– Zach doesn’t like running and Sam’s ankle is still messed up. They were going to wait there for everyone else.”

“When did Sam mess up their ankle?” Matt asks as he hears footsteps on the stairs above them hurrying their way.

“Four or five months ago,” Alfred says distractedly as he slows down and turns to face back up the stairs. Matt pauses as well. Maybe it’s Tom or Aidan coming down for help. There is one last flight before they reach the lobby.

It’s not Tom or Aidan.

It’s Arthur.

“What the hell are you doing?” Alfred snaps. “I told you to remain upstairs.”

Arthur raises his chin defiantly. “I want answers. Why are you rushing off and leaving two high schoolers in charge?”

“They’re not high schoolers–They’re–” Alfred splutters before refocusing, “–They are perfectly capable and have just as much clearance as you or I. Now please leave, this is a matter of national security.”

Arthur crosses his arms. “Then why does Matthew get to know?”

“Oh, please don’t bring me into this,” Matthew says, backing up and raising his hands.

Alfred flounders at Arthurs’s question because he probably isn’t really focused on the conversation because one of his state capitals was attacked and that there isn’t really a good reason for Matthew to be involved besides him already knowing the secret, which you can’t explain without explaining the secret.

In that moment of silence, they hear the second set of feet descend the stairs and Francis pokes his head around the corner. “Ah,” he says, ignoring the tension between them all, “a family reunion.”

Alfred grabs fistfuls of his hair. “I don’t have time for this. Just go back to the conference room.”

“Not without an explanation.”

In response, Alfred storms down the last flight of stairs. Matthew quickly races after him, but their two hangers-on still follow.

“Al… Al… Alfred,” Matthew says, catching Alfred’s arm right before the entrance to the UN building. “Just let’s think... for a moment.” Alfred tries to shake him off, but Matthew holds his ground and even pushes a hand against his brother’s chest. “We don’t know where Sarah or Victoria are, right? We can only guess where the other four are now. Aren’t eight eyes better than four?”

When Alfred still looks apprehensive– probably because of the math, Matt should know better than to make Alfred do the math when he’s crisis-ing– Matthew presses on, voice barely a whisper, “We don’t have to tell them anything. The magic holds strong enough that everyone will be safe.”

Alfred pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs forcefully out of it and Matthew knows he won. “Fine. Fine! Fine,” Al growls. “They can come. I’m getting a cab. Brief them in thirty seconds or I’m leaving without you.”

And then he pushes through the front doors, leaving Matthew to turn sheepishly toward Arthur and Francis. “We’re going to Boston, Massachusetts,” he explains awkwardly. “There are people there important to Alfred and he needs to make sure they are okay.” Please assume they’re his lovers, please assume it's anything but a huge national secret. “If you want answers, you’re going to have to help us find them.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows, as though he was expecting Alfred to just admit to the secret that Arthur doesn’t even know he’s tap-dancing over. Francis, however, looks immediately charmed. “Oh! A scenic tour of Boston! You know, the first time I was in Boston–”

Arthur turns an interesting purple as he smacks Francis over the head. “Not that story again frog!”

“Ah, but  _ Angleterre, _ it is not my fault that you are jealous of the people’s infatuation with me.”

And then the two of them were off, arguing and bitching behind Matthew as the latter breathes a sigh of relief. Their attention successfully diverted from Al’s problems, Matthew marches out to meet Alfred and their taxi.

* * *

Benjamin Franklin once said, “Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”

He is not the first nor was he the last to use this idea to illustrate the collective inability of humans to keep their mouth shut; the general gist being that people cannot trust each other to keep other’s personal information to themselves without being unable to speak– in this example, dead.

This doesn’t stop the creation of secrets, or even the sharing of secrets in full confidence.

There are many ways to hide a secret. You can have smaller secrets that you share with your friends because you understand, much like Ben, that eventually, accidentally that secret might slip out of their mouths. You can act like a loud, mouthy, open book claiming to have no secrets, all the while playing a hand of cards shoved in your pocket. You could even deny having a secret and kill, like Ben suggests, anyone who discovers your secret. You can even have a decoy to the secret just in case anyone gets too close.

But none of this actually helps with shared secrets. Or keeping  _ people _ a secret.

Because it really is laughable that fifty people can exist in the world with no one the wiser to their presence. Someone has to have slipped up at some point. Someone had to have said something.

So, in 1868 when Matthew discovered Alfred’s secret and then in 1941 when José was informed, it was really only the punchline to Alfred’s long con.

At least it was until Matthew and José turned around and introduced Alfred to thirteen and thirty-one others they had been keeping secret as well.

* * *

“What flight are we taking?” Matt asks as the car comes to a rolling stop in front of the drop off at JFK. Alfred just shakes his head, throwing a handful of fifty dollar bills at the cabbie. They bypass security at the gate; he has a badge that has the highest security clearance so the mortals let him through without any fuss.

For a split second, he wants to make Arthur and Francis caught up in TSA so they can’t follow him, but his boss doesn’t need that additional headache. Then again, Matt’s face would be really really funny to be able to witness.

But he lets them through and leads the way to where he knows Esha is working today.

She’s sitting in the terminal by the gate, reading a newspaper and drinking a coffee. When he sits in front of her, she flips the top of the newspaper down to look at him. “Alfred,” she greets before returning to her newspaper. “You must be the reason my itinerary changed fifteen minutes ago.”

A wave of relief sweeps through him and he sinks shakily down into the chair across from her. Alfred buries his face in his hands and takes a few deep breaths. Sam’s okay, he repeats in his mind, Sam’s okay.

Esha, practical as always, ignores his fit and instead looks behind him to Matt, Arthur, and Francis standing around like low-grade security. “And you brought your brother. And some other gentlemen. Matthew, it’s been a while.”

“Esha,” Matt greets. “Beautiful as ever.” And then, because Matt always had the most manners out of the two of them, he introduces Esha to their two hangers-on. “This is Arthur and Francis, they’re friends of ours. This is Esha Lee, a renowned pilot in her own right.”

She snorts and folds up her newspaper. “And you’ll need one to get you to Boston especially with the new no-fly order.”

Matt’s hand settles heavily on Alfred’s shoulder and the latter starts to pull himself together. Esha is smiling softly down at him when he looks up at her again. Quietly, so that Alfred could barely hear her, she whispers, “I’m sure they’re fine, Al. They’re a resilient bunch if Taimur and Sam are the molds and not the exception.” Then louder after she downs the rest of her coffee. “Alright, hotshots. Boarding time is now. Get your rears in gear.”

* * *

It’s not that Alfred thinks he’s above all of his siblings. He is well aware that they outnumber him fifty to one. And that if it came down to representatives in the government, he’d have nothing since he really only controls the 68 square miles of their national capital and the idea of the collective United States.

Those 68 square miles also don’t have any representation in Congress which highlights the imbalance between him and his siblings better than any other comparison he could draw.

Because Alfred knows, he knows, that if suddenly he ceases to exist, the rest of them would be strong enough to last. It’s not just him, Victoria, Samantha and the babies against the world anymore. And it never really was back then; Victoria and Sam survived on their own for eighty years and then raised the entirety of the eastern seaboard while he was drawing Arthur’s attention. They would have made it work if he hadn’t been there.

But– but– and this is the important part– they all have roles to play, and Alfred knows his.

Alfred has always been honest with himself; he’s a glorified figurehead, as much of a smokescreen as he can manage to deflect from the biggest secret of his immortal life. If he can manage to annoy Arthur, Francis, or the rest of the world enough, they won’t look any closer. If all they think he is is just a superhero complex that grew legs and eats obnoxiously, they won’t want to look any deeper and he can keep everyone at arm's length and keep his family safe.

From the burning of Washington to the 9/11 attacks, he knows to shoulder his siblings' pain. A wildfire in California, an attack of a naval base in Hawai’i, a hurricane in Louisiana– he has to show their pain to the outside world.

–And of course, he can feel lit, their citizens are still his citizens, but he feels it in a phantom sense, as an odd nudge in the back of his head that the rest of the forty-nine feel because as a nation, they are not homogenous; people from different states travel, move, and live their lives between all fifty of the states–

Before the invention of cellphones– or even phones in general– determining what he needed to pretend to suffer from was a race to whomever could get to him fast enough. He, Sam, and Victoria had traced it out on his body where each state would be if they were all his and his alone; Maine at the top of his cranium, New York as his eyes, Virginia at his heart, Eastern seaboard on his left arm, the northern border with Canada as his right, with Alaska at his fingertips, the Midwest as his trunk, from the Rockies west as his right leg, the rest of the southern states as his left. He is quite adept at painting fake injuries on his skin.

He’s the line of first defense.

He knows his role.

So he leans back in his seat, takes a placebo pain pill, and closes his eyes. Massachusetts is around his temples, so he has a splitting headache.

* * *

Francis grew up far before the creation of “modern medicine” so much of what he considers “normal” and “reasonable” for treatments is wildly out of proportion with what should be done nowadays.

That being said, he doesn’t believe shouting and arguing with someone who has a “majorly, splitting headache, dudes” is recommended.

“–all flyovers have been grounded and Boston is officially a no-fly zone.”

“Which is why we’re going  _ around Boston _ to the South to come into Logan International airport from the East, which Esha knows, so stop being a worrywart.”

“But, again, that airport is closed.”

“Well, what do you want me to say? That we shouldn’t go to Manchester Regional and drive for an hour to reach Boston because–” Alfred pauses in his shouting to look to his right where Francis is sitting. Francis offers a tight smile. Alfred doesn’t return it and instead leans closer across the table to his brother. “–certain  _ things _ allow us to make a safe landing at Logan.”

Mathieu stares blankly at his brother, his eyebrows drawn in anger, and really Francis reflects, this is the longest he has seen Mathieu angry outside of active warfare. “Things?” he asks incredulously.

Alfred nods and resettles himself in his seat with a grunt. “Things.”

The cogs in Mathieu’s mind slowly start turning. “Like…  _ things  _ things?” he asks with a strange inflection.

Alfred groans. “Yes,  _ those  _ types of things.” Mathieu nods now in understanding.

“What bloody  _ things _ are you two talking about?” Arthur demands from his seat across from Mathieu. Francis shakes his head at his irritation and impatience, but applauds his curiosity. If the two of them had continued repeating the same word for the rest of their flight, Francis might have jumped.

“None of your beeswax, Arthur,” Alfred snarls.

“Al–” Mathieu tries, but Arthur has already puffed up in his seat.

Ah well, Francis thinks as he unclips his seatbelt and walks to the pilots’ cabin just as the arguing starts up, yet again. Esha is sitting by herself with an open co-pilot chair next to her that Francis gratefully sinks into.

She barely glances at him before focusing on the clouds through the window again. “Sick of their dick-measuring contest?” Then she squints at him, “Which one are you again?”

His absolute favorite thing about Alfred’s people is their complete disinterest in common courtesy. “Francis,” he says.

She turns to him again and looks him up and down quickly. “So are you France with a frankly ironic name or England with a depressing name?”

He is stunned. Alfred had always made it clear that his people didn’t really believe in Nations; said he’d gotten chased out of quite a few towns as part of a witch hunt far more times than he would have liked. Esha laughs at his dumbfounded expression.

“I’m Alfred and Taimur’s favorite go-to commercial pilot based in New York City. After a while you notice you have crows feet while the bastard still looks like he stepped off of a college ad,” she explains. Then rather proudly, “I forced him into telling me by threatening to invite him home to my parents as my newest boyfriend.”

Francis nods, then pauses and reconsiders. “Taimur?”

Esha stares at him in confusion. “His brother,” she says, as though the answer was obvious.

The longer Francis takes to digest that fact, the more uneasy Esha starts to look, so he rushes to fake an excuse; “Oh yes, Taimur. I um, know him by his other name.”

This seems to appease Esha as she nods in understanding. “So which one are you?”

He grins flirtatiously and takes her nearest hand to kiss the back of it. She raises an unimpressed eyebrow.  _ “La France,  _ darling,” he answers with a wink.

She leans closer to him. “I’m too young for you.”

Oh, he likes her. Before he can open his mouth to respond, she takes back her hand and turns to the controls and picks up her communication equipment.

“Boston Approach, Cessna 74NOS VFR Request.”

The speaker crackles with the response of Air Traffic Control. “Cessna 74NOS Boston Approach go ahead.”

Esha clears her throat. “Cessna 74NOS is a Cessna Citation CJ1, slant golf, 10 miles east of Logan airport, 9,000 feet, heading direct to Boston, request flight following”

Air Traffic Control is silent for a long moment. Just as Esha opens her mouth to repeat herself, it crackles on again. “Cessna 74NOS approved, Squawk 1787, Boston Altimeter 30.03.”

Francis looks at Esha as she starts to prepare for approach and landing. “Wasn’t Mathieu saying Boston is a no-fly zone now?”

She pauses to look at him and smirks. “We’re in America,  _ darling,”  _ she says mocking his drawl, “anything is possible when you know the right people.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: Green (In the Western World, green can symbolize misfortune, and in the Eastern World, it symbolizes family) - Delaware Munsee language other colors here: http://www.native-languages.org/munsee_colors.htm
> 
> Alfred's ringtone for Taylor is the New Hampshire state song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FIohB1PmvfM


	2. Wisôwáyuw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE:  
> Sarah:: State of Maine  
> Taimur "Tom":: State of New York  
> Aidan:: State of New Jersey  
> José:: Mexico  
> Zachary:: State of Vermont  
> Samantha "Sam":: State of Connecticut  
> Alfred:: USA, canon Hetalia character  
> Arthur:: England, canon Hetalia character  
> Matthew:: Canada, canon Hetalia character  
> Francis:: France, canon Hetalia character  
> Taylor:: State of New Hampshire
> 
> MENTIONED:  
> Owen:: Commonwealth of Massachusetts  
> Victoria:: State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations  
> Savannah:: State of Tennessee  
> Sydney:: State of North Carolina  
> Chloe:: Commonwealth of Virginia  
> Nili:: State of California  
> Paige:: Commonwealth of Pennsylvania  
> Kira:: State of Alaska

She doesn’t lose consciousness after the bomb and the following phases of the explosions. But she definitely lost time, just staring at the dispersing crowds and the smoke billowing from Boylston Street and the finish line. When she blinks herself back into the present, she sees medic teams rushing toward Boylston street and the officers at the side of the marathon starting to redirect traffic.

Sarah stands and dusts herself off. There’s still an eerie ringing in her ears, but no amount of head shaking can stop it. She was not cut; that she can see or feel, but there is a bruise on her tailbone from when she had fallen on her ass in disbelief.

Owen and Taylor would be behind her still. Victoria is ahead, probably at the finish line with Zach and Sam. Sarah doesn’t have her phone on her; she left it with Sam as well as her go-bag. Taylor brought hers, so she probably got in touch with Alfred or Sam.

Sarah was a combat medic about seven years ago and that wasn’t even her first rodeo. The best thing she can do now is to start helping and hope that Alfred shows up sooner rather than later.

Rolling her shoulders back and cracking her neck, Sarah waves off the officers near her and sets off at a jog toward the wailing of the ambulance sirens.

* * *

The way that memory magic works, Sam would explain to all the young colonies and eventual states, is that it takes the memory and glosses over it, obscuring the memory of them. It wouldn’t take the memory away completely, but their identity would be wrapped in many fine layers of misdirection that it would be taken as simply forgetting. The enchantment would just push their consciousness away like an overeager puppy. For the younger states, and even everyone aside from a few states in the South, this was a very simple process and only reinforced the idea that when the territory was surrendered to Alfred that they simply ceased to exist. There wasn’t a lot to cover up, just lending more credibility to the rumors.

For Samantha, Victoria, Zachary, Savannah, and Sydney, it was harder.

Of the five, Savannah and Sydney were easiest; they had barely spoken to the nations before they returned home and also admitted it to Sam when they were convalescing after the war. Zachary easier still since zie was technically a separate territory before being assimilated into the United States, so technically falls with the majority of the siblings, but most of the memories with zir included Sam and Victoria.

Victoria and Sam had over a hundred years of memories to brush over and– that–

That’s harder.

It kept slipping the first ten years after Sam had help with casting the charm.

Pulling a rug over a lump on the floor makes it hard to pretend that there never was a lump before. It’s a memory that they cannot access from above, but if they come at it sideways they can find it again.

And find it they did.

The people they enchanted know something’s missing, something important, but only if they focus hard on the thought. It’s a song and dance they used to be able to perform with their eyes closed, but after hearing the first chords again, and by focusing they forgot all of the steps.

Eventually, it got strong enough to hold and to build upon itself to the point where they could venture out of the United States and into global conflicts and not have anyone remember who they are.

Sometime in the sixties, Arthur had come visiting and had gotten high with some of the states by happenstance. He kept insisting he recognized them and at the end of the night, when he was high out of his mind and staring up at their ceiling, he muttered, “It’s like an itch on your brain that you can’t get to stop bothering you, and it’s so damn frustrating because the only solution seems to be pounding your head against the nearest object, but you know that won’t help.”

He didn’t recognize any of them in the morning. Didn’t remember ever thinking that he recognized them.

That is important to remember.

The children of the Americas have been raised on smoke screens and misdirection; butter won’t melt in their mouths. They have perfected the art of staying hidden in plain sight.

That is more important to understand.

* * *

Taimur’s phone chimes three separate times quietly from his coat pocket. At the next pause between debates and presentations, he pulls his phone out to check it.

[The Next Person To Change The Name of This Chat is Getting Removed <3]

**VA** (3:02PM): There’s a parallel @Owen’s. Bunker down kids. NY acting DC.

**AK** (3:22PM):  _ I’m  _ booking a flight like a normal person.

**CA** to  **Taimur Jones**

**CA** (3:10PM): Heads up.

As he is reading the text message from Nili, a new text message comes in from a different sister. Beside him, Aidan’s phone also chimes.

**PA** to  **Taimur Jones** & **NJ**

**PA** (3:41PM): She just got on the bus to Penn Station.

**PA** (3:41PM): I think she’s headed to either you or your apartment in the city

**PA** (3:41PM): You’ve got three hours min.

**PA** (3:42PM): ….Good luck.

“Mr. Johnson.”

Startled, Taimur guiltily shoves his phone back into his pocket and tries to calm his racing heart. He nods at Germany and picks up his pen to keep notating the useless presentation. He takes deep and careful breaths through his nose. Aidan eyes him sideways and slowly slides an empty sheet of notebook paper between the two of them.

_ Maya? _ He writes on the page.

Taimur huffs out a laugh through his nose. He underlines their sister’s name. Then below it, he writes in shaky Yiddish orthography:  _ Kira is probably flying to Seattle. Too long to get here if it’s a  _ _ real _ _ parallel. _ He underlines ‘real’ three times.

Aidan underlines the beginning of the second sentence draws an arrow between that and Maya’s name. He writes two more question marks. As good as Aidan is at speaking Yiddish, he had very little patience to learn how to write in it with any semblance of clarity.

_ She was staying with Nili. It’s the anniversary this week. I think _ .

Aidan draws a smiley face below this statement.

José on his other side subtly clears his throat. The notepad disappears under a pile of papers in front of Aidan.

* * *

Zachary tears zir eyes away from watching the patch of visible sky in between the buildings and refocuses back on the rest of the calamity on the ground as emergency crews move what  _ should _ be the last of the orange tagged folks. Beside zir, Sam groans from where they are scrunched up.

“Are you going to throw up again?” Zach asks dubiously, feeling zir stomach cramp. Sam has already thrown up once where they were first waiting at the finish line before they were ushered to where they are now with the most of the yellow tagged patients, and, as a consequence of being a sympathetic puker, so did Zachary.

Sam swats the back of zir leg. Which is probably a no. “Sit down, you’re making me nauseous being so tall.”

“That’s just your concussion,” Zach replies. Ze flinches at the noise of an ambulance driving over the rubble which sounds more like chopper blades than normal. Ze scans the sky once more. Nothing. Ze looks up and down the street. All normal. Well, normal for the present circumstances. Some of the worse-off yellow-tags are being loaded onto present ambulances. That’s good. “And I’m two inches shorter than you.”

“Not when I’m sitting,” Sam grumbles.

It’s quiet as the ambulances picking up patients slowly peel out, no lights or sirens. Sam grumbles into their knees as Zach scans their surroundings again. Ze keeps expecting to hear helicopter blades whirring in the distance and ze can’t seem to stop focusing on that.

Which is why he hears Sarah yell for them first.

“Zach? Zach!”

Ze turns and sees Sarah running toward the two of them. Ze is distantly aware of Sam picking their head up and looking for Sarah. She seems almost exactly like she had at the starting line, cheeks a little redder and her short hair falling out of the french braids Victoria had painstaking put in this morning because they were running late.

She skids to a stop in front of Zach and only doesn’t bowl zir over because she catches zir in a crushing hug. Zach throws one arm out for balance and wraps the other around her tight, pressing zir face into Sarah’s sweaty hair.

“You guys are okay,” she says, deflating. Zach runs a hand from the base of her head down her spine, feeling the tension she’s carrying dissipate.

“Have you seen anyone else?” Sam asks as Sarah releases Zach and turns to them. Sam makes a motion like they were about to get up.

“No,” Zach chides. Sarah glances back at zir before bending and hugging Sam just as tight. Sam’s hand comes up to cradle Sarah’s head, fond and soft in all the ways that the glare they send Zach’s way is not. But that’s alright. Zach’s proud of zir status as The Thorn in Sam’s side for almost 250 years.

Sarah shakes her head as she pulls away from Sam. “No, Victoria passed us all early on and Owen and Taylor were lagging on heartbreak hill so I got ahead of them.”

“Owen was lagging?” Zach asks, surprised. Sam also looks uncomfortable with this information. Sarah nods, pressing her lips thinly together. 

“I think Taylor was going to stick close to him after Victoria got so far ahead of us. Did you guys see her?”

Sam shakes their head and then grimaces badly and has to press their head into their knees, breathing deeply for a moment. Sarah looks at Zach. Zach shrugs. “Concussion. They fell on their ass right into me after the explosion because they weren’t using their crutches.”

“Damn things,” Sam agrees, muffled by their jeans.

Sarah nods to zir yellow tag. “And you?”

Sam answers, “Ze’s having flashbacks.”

And all the bruises and tachycardia, Zach thought but didn’t say.

Sarah nods in understanding. “Do you still have our bag?” Zach slides it off of zir shoulder and offers it to her. She digs around in it for a second before pulling out her phone and a granola bar. She stuffs half of the granola bar in her mouth. “Text me what hospital you end up going to– oh Chloe texted, so someone got in touch with Al. That’s good. I’ll stay here and look for Taylor or Vickie and try to get in touch with Al.”

“Yes  _ Mom _ ,” Sam says sarcastically.

Zach blinks and looks around. Most of the yellow-tagged patients have been evacuated without zir noticing. There’s a pair of very determined EMTs headed their way. Sarah kisses them both on the cheek before taking off back toward where the race ended.

Zach stares after her and thinks distantly of chopper blades and watching zir sister jump out of planes to play chicken with enemy fire over their wounded.

Ze blinks. The EMT’s are introducing themselves.

“Zachary Jones,” ze says. “And my brother, Sam.”

* * *

His phone starts ringing just as he gets in the rental car. He accepts it and throws it on speaker. The bomb was supposed to have been by Boylston Street, Taylor said.

“Yeah,” he says, barely letting Matt and everyone buckle their seats before he’s peeling out of the parking lot.

The voice is a soft but welcoming one. “D.C.?”

Alfred feels his heart swoop down into his stomach.  _ “Sarah.” _

“Hi,” she says, her voice still small but carrying just as much relief as his voice did. She clears her throat. “So, going by Chloe’s text you’re not at your meeting any longer?”

He laughs and then blares his horn at a passing car. “No, I’m just leaving the airport.”

Sarah is stunned silent for a moment and through the tinny noise of the phone speakers, Alfred can hear a short  _ wop _ of an ambulance. “The airport?” she asks.

Alfred’s teeth start to grind in irritation. “Yup. Big old family reunion.”

“...Reunion,” Sarah repeats with suspicion. Then, with clarity, “Oh! Is Matt there?”

“Hey, Sarah,” his brother remarks from where he is gripping onto the ‘oh shit’ handle like his life depends on it. Francis, behind Alfred, makes a quiet, scathing remark in French about Alfred’s driving resembling a mutual Italian acquaintance of theirs.

Sarah hears.

Alfred doesn’t know what to say. Sarah is silent. There is nothing from either of them except the sound of cars passing by and Matthew’s loudly silent eye contact, which he should remember it was  _ his  _ idea, not Alfred’s, to bring the two threats to national security along for this trip.

“Alfred?” she asks her voice small and very uncertain, and Alfred  _ aches _ with the fear lacing through her tone. “Do you remember that lullaby my parents used to sing to me?”

The lullaby. Of course. They haven’t used it as a code in years, but it was the first they had ever taught Sarah’s batch of children.

Sarah’s making excuses of there being a lost child with her and she was trying to reassure the child with a song, but she can’t remember the exact tune and has only been humming for the past few minutes. Alfred cuts her off.

His voice is low on the old tune, the old nostalgia from teaching the children the song and having them dance on his feet:

“From Boston Harbour we set sail / When it was blowin’ the devil of a gale, / With the ringtail set all avast the mizzen peak / And Rule Britannia ploughin’ up the deep / With a big bow-wow / Tow-row-row / Fol-de-rol de ri do day,” Alfred sings. Sarah hums the melody underneath him at the chorus. He can feel the judgment rolling off of both Matthew and Arthur in waves, though very different flavors. Alfred sings the next verse in, what he will admit, poorly remembered French.  _ “Then up come the skipper / from down below, / It’s “Look aloft, lads, look alow!” / And it’s “Look alow!” and it’s “Look aloft!” / And–” _

Sarah joins in then, singing softly in much better French than him,  _ “And “Tie up your rope, lads, fore and aft!” _ There is a moment after that where she hums the chorus again, but Alfred does not sing again. “Thanks, I had it stuck in my head all day. How far away are you? Zach just texted me that zir and Sam are at Boston General, and I think Victoria is probably there too.”

“Taylor and Owen are there too,” Alfred answers. “I’ll come to pick you up first and we’ll all head that way.”

Sarah sighs in relief. “Oh good, you heard from her. I was going to call her next.” Then a pause. “Oh! I’m walking toward the Common.”

“We just pulled onto 1A. Be there soon. Stay safe.”

“Will do, love you.”

He sees her, some fifteen minutes later, standing in front of Shaw and the 54th Regiment Memorial. She was studying the bronze relief but turns almost as soon as he parks the car. He sees her shoulders slump and her mouth his name as he runs out of his seat, leaving Matt to squawk about no-parking zones. But it doesn’t matter, can’t he see? All that matters is catching his little sister in a strong hug as she starts to cry.

“You’re okay?” he demands, hugging her tight. Her face is pressed into his chest and she nods helplessly, gasping and crying.

“Not a scratch on me,” she whimpers. “Sam has a concussion and probably a bruised ass because they fell over because they weren’t using their crutches. Zach has been having flashbacks, but overall looked okay. And  _ who the fuck did you bring with you? _ England and France?”

He holds her tighter. “You understood.”

“Yeah,  _ Rule Britannia _ and singing a whole section of the song in French when you could barely remember it in English, pretty unsubtle.” A car door opens and shuts twice and when Alfred turns his head, he sees through the windshield of their car Matt and the rest getting comfortable in the backseat. Sarah pulls away from him and wipes her eyes, looks at him, scoffs, and wipes away his tears that he hadn’t even noticed. “Let’s get this over with.”

Matt hands her a pile of tissues when she sits in the passenger seat, because he just keeps those on his person, apparently. She smiles gratefully at him, wipes her eyes again, and blows her nose. Then, as Alfred pulls away from the curb and back into traffic, she turns around to smile winningly at their passengers.

“Sarah Jean. Sorry, I look a fright! I was running in the marathon today. You’re Alfred’s friends, right?”

Arthur, stuck in the middle, simply frowns at Sarah, arms crossed over his chest. Francis extends a hand for Sarah to shake. He doesn’t try to kiss the back of it, thankfully or Alfred would have had to start another war. “Yes,  _ mademoiselle _ , my name is Francis, and this surly mess next to me is Arthur.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Sarah lies, probably, “I just wish it were under better circumstances.”

–She’s met Francis once before, when she and Zachary were still young enough to pass for each other and Francis had caught Sam and Victoria unaware, with half of the children playing in the back yard and little Sarah playing by herself in the front–

“And Matt,” Sarah says, turning to look at her northern neighbor.

“Sarah,” he greets warmly and kisses her cheek. “It’s been too long.”

She laughs lightly and rocks in her chair as Alfred speeds through a spotlight. He hears her shift around and her elbow lands next to his on the console between them. Through her teeth, she whispers, “Getting into an accident will only get us there later.”

Alfred takes a deep breath, unclenches his hands on the wheel, eases his foot off the accelerator, and relaxes his shoulders.

Behind him, France mutters a prayer of gratitude.

Declaration of war it is.

* * *

Alfred makes a beeline to the nurse’s station in the emergency room, Sarah hot on his heels. Matt,  _ France, and England _ stay back by the doors. Alfred barely pauses to smile at the nurse before pulling out his ID.

He places it on the counter in front of her and says, “Hi, I’m Alfred Jones, emergency contact for Owen Jones.”

The nurse takes his ID and frowns at her computer for a second. Then she nods and hands the ID back. “He is here in the emergency room. His doctor should be out to talk to you soon.”

Sarah closes her eyes as they start to sting with tears. She is  _ so  _ glad Owen is okay. She sits in that emotion for a second as the nurse kindly asks Alfred if she can help him with anything else.

“I’m also the emergency contact for Zachary Jones?”

The nurse searches on her computer and then nods again. “He is in the emergency room. I see you are also listed under Sam Jones. He is also here in the emergency room.”

“Victoria Jones?” Alfred asks.

The nurse purses her lips and taps at her computer for a long moment. “It looks like she was taken into surgery upstairs about ten minutes ago.”

“Surgery!” Sarah says, surprised.

“Yes,” the nurse confirms, the blue of the computer screen reflecting on her glasses. “Just standard removal of shrapnel. The surgery should be completed soon. You can wait down here or upstairs.”

Alfred stalls, as if confused about the choice, so Sarah places a hand on his forearm. He looks at her and his blue eyes bore into her brown ones. “Go upstairs,” she says, “and wait for Vicky. I’ll stay here for everyone else.”

He stares at her for a moment longer before nodding sharply. He kisses her forehead, promises to keep his phone on, and runs off for the elevators. Sarah watches him go and takes a deep breath. Sitting and waiting and fretting was not high on the list of things Sarah had wanted to do today. But nevertheless, as she thanks the desk nurse and turns back to her three distant relatives, she squares her shoulders.

She is 235 years old.

She can do this.

Which is, of course, when she hears Taylor call her name.

The waiting room is packed with people, those there for completely normal reasons, and those from the bombing. In the middle of it all, still sweaty and haphazardly put together, holding a small cup of coffee, stands Taylor.

Sarah makes her way to her and Taylor places her coffee on the floor to wrap her skinny arms around her, squeezing tight. “May,” she whispers, “May. May.”

“Tay,” Sarah whispers back. “I’m here. I saw Zach and Sam. They’re okay.”

“D.C.?”

“He’s here too. Went up to see when Vicky was out of surgery.” Sarah hugs Taylor closer. “He brought guests.”

Taylor pulls away at that, which is good, because Sarah loves her and all, but would rather not keep smelling her sister’s sweat. “Guests? Who?”

Sarah jerks her head to where Matt has remained.

Taylor brightens and unwinds herself from Sarah to catch her by the hand and drag her toward Matt. When she reaches him, she throws her arms around him and cries, in relief, “Ottawa!”

Matt, for his part, doesn’t overreact, instead just pulls Taylor closer and rocks her side to side.  _ Sarah _ is the one to freeze and glance at France and England behind Matt.

France is focused on the pair in front of him; Taylor is now breathing shakily, heavily, and Sarah takes a few deep breaths before she starts working herself up as well. 

England is looking right at her.

They hold eye contact for several long, bone-chilling seconds. The voice of Sam in the back of Sarah’s head extols the dangers of meeting Nations outside of their pre-approved bubble pounds in time with her heartbeat.

_ Matt will keep us safe _ , Sarah thinks against her jack-rabbiting pulse. As if hearing her, Taylor and Matt pull away and the latter reaches over to cup Sarah’s cheek.

“Oh!” Taylor says and takes a step back towards Sarah. She is staring at France and England.

Sarah touches the back of Taylor’s elbow and says, “Tay, these are Alfred’s coworkers, Arthur and Francis.”

“Oh,” says Taylor faintly, just as a nurse enters the waiting room and says over the sudden hush of silence, “Family of Owen Jones?”

They turn to him as a group and rush over, Sarah and Taylor at the front. The nurse stares at them before focusing on Taylor and Sarah.

“Taylor and Sarah, correct?” he asks without consulting his chart. He glances to the side to the other three and a small dip of his eyebrows betrays his confusion. This must be Owen’s new nurse; he had mentioned hiring a new one recently.

–As a rule, very few humans know of the Nations and, consequently, the States. The few that do know boil down to the extreme upper levels of their government and a very specific medical team that includes, but is not limited to a general practitioner, a therapist, a nurse, and a surgeon. They heal fast and having someone there to keep their “scientific curiosity” on the down-low helps immeasurably– 

“Mr. Jones is expected to make a full recovery–” Sarah knew that was coming, but hearing it confirmed makes her knees weak with relief– “he has regained consciousness and is being discharged now. Just keep it light on the cardio,” the nurse finishes.

Taylor breathes deeply and nods. Sarah thanks him and asks, “Could you check on two other patients?”

The nurse nods slowly, his eyes flicking toward France and England really quick and then back to her. “Yes, siblings of yours?”

She nods. “Zachary and Sam. Suspected concussion on Sam and bruising and battle fatigue on Zachary.”

“Of course,” he says. He pauses and then dips his head toward Taylor first and then Sarah. “Representatives.”

They nod to him and he leaves.

The group of five remains where they are, frozen in horror.

_ Maine _ , Taylor signs.

_ New Hampshire, _ Sarah signs back.

_ Connecticut is going to be pissed off _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: Orange (something demanding of attention and warmth) Mohegan Language, more colors here: http://www.native-languages.org/mohegan_colors.htm
> 
> Tennessee and North Carolina during the Civil War visited Europe with a group of confederates to try to drum up support for the confederacy and thereby outing themselves as Nation-States.
> 
> The song Alfred sings can be found here: https://youtu.be/MAqn3kM0aNM
> 
> Alfred and Matthew are referred to as D.C. and Ottawa respectively by their States/Provinces


	3. Uli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE:  
> Arthur:: England, canon Hetalia character  
> Francis:: France, canon Hetalia character  
> Matthew:: Canada, canon Hetalia character  
> Sarah:: State of Maine  
> Taylor:: State of New Hampshire  
> Owen:: Commonwealth of Massachusetts  
> Alfred:: USA, canon Hetalia character  
> Zachary:: State of Vermont  
> Samantha "Sam":: State of Connecticut  
> Taimur "Tom":: State of New York  
> Aidan:: State of New Jersey  
> José:: Mexico  
> Maya:: State of Hawai'i
> 
> MENTIONED:  
> Myrrdin:: Wales  
> Urien:: Ireland  
> Hannah:: Province of Pennsylvania (see: People Like Us, We Gotta Stick Together)  
> Katherine:: Province of Maryland (see: People Like Us, We Gotta Stick Together)  
> Victoria:: State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations  
> Chloe:: Commonwealth of Virginia  
> Paige:: Commonwealth of Pennsylvania  
> Kira:: State of Alaska  
> Molossia, canon micronation in Nevada, USA  
> Brooks:: Newfoundland, Canadian Province  
> Nanouk:: Inuit, Canadian Province

There is a very long awkward pause after the departure of the male nurse. The first girl, Sarah or something, sighs and walks over to a secluded corner of the waiting room. Her sister follows, very obviously not looking toward Francis and Arthur. Matt follows as well, but he glances at the two of them with a pleading expression Arthur distantly remembers from when Matt and Alfred had been colonies together. _Let me talk to him, please,_ the look says. 

This leaves just him and Francis frowning in their direction. Arthur turns away from the huddle the others are engaging now while Francis still stares after them.

“It’s like Wales,” he says after a fashion.

_What._

“You and Myrddin,” Francis continues, “and Urien, and the rest of them.”

“What do my brothers have to do with this soap opera we have found ourselves in?”

Francis levels him an unimpressed look, which, fair it was Arthur who had run out of the conference room first. “There are five of you, but only you and Urien show up to international meetings.”

Arthur stares at Francis. “Are you saying,” he starts slowly, “that _Alfred_ has managed to hide a whole family for over two hundred years?”

“Rather successfully, don’t you think.”

“There’s no way.” There’s a thrumming in his chest that screams of danger as he watches the girls and Matthew sit down, side by side, heads together like old friends. “It’s preposterous. It’s Alfred.”

“That girl, Sarah. She introduced herself with a different last name than those she claims are family.”

“Perhaps she married into their family.”

“The _Jones_ family,” Francis points out incredulously.

“There are a lot of Jones’ in the world. Same with Bonnefoys and Kirklands.”

“Not Jones’ that _Alfred Jones_ drops everything for at the slightest hint of emergency.”

“So, are you saying that Alfred accidentally maybe on purpose sired a whole family tree?”

“Would make sense, wouldn’t it? They feel somewhat like us because they are Al’s children,” Francis finishes with a triumphant air.

Arthur has to, unfortunately, concede his point. It checks all of the boxes and explains why Matthew knows them all; Alfred and he never could really keep secrets from the other. And why Alfred would be so protective of them. And so irritated at Francis and Arthur, especially, tagging along.

Alfred had always loved and doted on his sister, that Arthur remembered without a doubt. He’d had two of them before and was incredibly distraught when they faded. He had barely spoken to Arthur for almost two years after Katherine’s death. Watching the two sisters— _Alfred’s daughters_ — Arthur felt a pang of sympathy for the loneliness Alfred must have been carrying all these years.

“He did call this a family reunion,” Arthur says faintly as Sarah reaches over and brushes the hair out of her sister’s face.

Francis claps a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Well, let us go and behave as the uncles we are supposed to be, yes?”

* * *

When Owen finds Sarah and Tay and D.C. in the waiting room, he doesn’t run. But he does speed his feet up a little.

Sarah stands and turns toward him just as he reaches her. He curls into her arms so that his head is cradled against her chest and he can hear her heartbeat loud, alive, and present in his ear. She holds him tighter to herself and rocks side to side soothingly humming a song that Owen can hear in the vibration of her chest. Sarah holds him for minutes, hours, long enough that he loses track of time.

She only pauses humming once to thank someone before resuming.

When he feels more focused and less like he’s about to shake apart, he picks his face up and rests it on Sarah’s shoulder, breathing a cool lungful of stale hospital air. Taylor is standing behind Sarah and she smiles when their eyes meet.

“Hey little bro,” she says, ruffling his hair.

He laughs through his stuffy nose. “You’re only six days older than me.”

“Semantics,” she laughs, dodging the hand he swipes at her.

Sarah tightens her arms around him and whispers quietly in his ear, “Your boss called earlier and I talked to him for you. They haven’t found another explosive, but they have only just started canvassing. Three casualties that we know of.”

Owen pulls away from her and frowns. It’s just them. Why the need to whisper in his ear? Then he recognizes Matthew where he had first thought Alfred. But still, it’s _Matt._

Sarah doesn’t let him go far before her fingers dig into his shoulders again and pull him to her chest again tight.

Her voice is barely a whisper, _“No-da-ih Klizzie-yazzie. Ma-e Gah.”_

Owen is silent in confusion. Ute Kid. Fox Rabbit? He looks up at Taylor in question.

Taylor is blithely and badly faking an easy smile. Her eyes meet his and she signs close to her chest, _Be on guard._

He ticks his eyebrows to the center quickly. They’re standing in the middle of one of his hospitals. Why would he need to be on guard here?

 _Dangerous,_ Taylor signs.

He cuts his eyes to Matt next to them, who is pretending with polite fiction to not know what they are saying. He is also standing so that his body blocks Taylor from the rest of the waiting room.

Taylor signs _no._

Ute Kid. Fox Rabbit.

UK. FR. France and the United Kingdom? There’s no way. He’s misunderstanding something.

On Sarah’s shoulder, he taps in morse code, _France and England?_

Sarah hums affirmatively and Owen feels his stomach grow cold. He locks eyes with Taylor again and wiggles his pointer finger at her. _Where?_

_Behind you._

Taking a few deep breaths to disguise his onset of anxiety, Owen hugs Sarah and blinks twice at Taylor. Message received.

He steps away from his sisters, feeling the sticky heat all along his front fade out, and shakes his hair loose from where Sarah and Taylor had run their fingers through it. He steps around Sarah to kiss Taylor on the cheek and claps a hand on Matthew’s shoulder.

Matt grins at him and throws an arm around him. He tugs him close and bumps his head with Owen’s. “I’m glad to see you okay,” Matt whispers before turning him easily toward their estranged older brothers.

“Owen,” he says, gesturing to _England_ and _France_ standing easy as you please in the middle of Owen’s hospital, “This is Francis and Arthur, they work with Alfred.”

“It’s nice to meet you, gentlemen,” Owen says, shaking their hands with his blandest public relations smile on his face. “I’m sorry to have stolen Alfred from your project, but we didn’t really plan on needing him today.”

France smiles just as kindly as Sam had always described it. “But of course, a family should be together in times of crisis.”

Owen laughs tightly, his smile frozen on his lips. “Yeah, and after knowing the old man for so long, we’re practically family!”

This causes France and England both to pause. They glance at each other.

There’s an emergency exit just past them in the stairwell. There are two staircases back through the emergency room doors used by the staff and a hatchet protected by glass just inside the swiveling doors. Taylor has pepper spray on her at all times and the three of them are still in running gear. Matt probably will buy them a minute if they’re lucky. And Alfred—

Alfred is walking into the waiting room.

“No, we meant that we know,” England says, but Alfred’s shout obscures the rest of his sentence.

“Owen!”

“Hey Al,” Owen says, reaching out a hand for a fist bump. No homo and all that bullshit.

Alfred glances at France and England and then steps just slightly in front of them to return Owen’s fist bump. “You’re okay?”

“Yeah, doc’ said it was just a wicked random heart attack.”

Nodding his head slowly, Alfred then turns to Taylor and smiles at her. “Taylor.”

Taylor doesn’t turn from where she’s staring at England with a blank face. “Alfred. Where were you.”

“Upstairs,” Alfred says slowly, but his expression says he notices Taylor’s expression. “Checking on Vicky.”

She nods. “We met your friends while you were gone.”

“Ah yes,” Alfred says and then opens his mouth, but Taylor beats him to it again.

“And they figured it out.”

“And they figured it— what.”

Taylor’s eyes are shining, but she doesn’t blink, just looks straight at England. “That’s what you said, isn’t it? I can’t hear all that well, you understand, so I read lips. You said you knew. Both of you, right?”

Alfred turns around and steps fully in front of the three of them, eyes blazing as he glares at England and France. The two Nations take two steps backward while half-heartedly showing their open palms. Sarah has a hand fisted in the back of Owen’s shirt.

Owen, for his part, can’t breathe.

“You know?” Alfred demands, just this side of too loud for a hospital waiting room.

France is just staring at Alfred so it’s England that glances between the two of them and shrugs. “Alfred, it’s not that hard to figure out.”

Matt laughs through his nose from where he's standing off to the side. “Took three hundred years at least.”

England looks flabbergasted at that and France mouths ‘three hundred’ to himself. Alfred snorts and nods his head toward his brother in acknowledgment.

“How long have you known?” Alfred demands.

Obviously still stuck on the 300 years bit of information, England ignores the question and states shrilly, “1713? That was in the middle of a war, Alfred!”

“At the end of one,” Alfred corrects tightly, “and try 1687. But nevermind that, _how long have you known._ ”

England grabs at his hair with one hand and stares at Alfred in disbelief. France then answers, “We’ve only suspected since we got off the plane. We— I was certain when we met Owen.”

What in the hell did Owen do that made them connect the dots? He glances at Sarah and she quickly shakes her head at him. He didn’t do anything then, but Sarah has obviously retroactively found France’s train of thought.

Part of him wonders if he should be making a run for it with his sisters, but Alfred hasn’t given the signal yet.

* * *

“Mr. Johnson, is there something important you need to address?” Germany says after the fifth chime of Taimur’s phone in the last two minutes.

“No, sir,” Taimur says without breaking eye contact. He would keep his phone on silent, but Aidan had gone down to talk to the head of security and to receive Maya at the entrance to the UN building. The texts are just his siblings confirming they are with their disaster buddies. No one has heard from either Alfred, the rest of the northeast, or even Matthew since they left the UN building. He can’t afford to miss anything, even if it’s all drivel at this point.

His phone lights up once again; Kira confirming that she has reached the Seattle airport.

A little farther down the table, Prussia, under the impression that Taimur cannot understand him, mutters in German an insult about Americans and their sense of misplaced importance.

Taimur does not react. At first.

He keeps maintaining eye contact with Germany and sees the Nation struggle to keep his mouth in a straight line while chuckles echo down the other side of the table.

The first rule when a state is ‘acting-D.C.’ is to lay low and not to draw attention. A century ago when the rest of the world didn’t remember what Alfred looked like, they could dye Alex or Sam’s hair blond and pass them off as Alfred until Alfred arrived; Sam still refers to them as the peak of their acting career.

The second is to not pick fights.

But, well, Taimur’s a New Yorker.

He stares at Germany, at this Aryan son of a bitch that’s smirking at what he thinks is only a high ranking, stupid American that Alfred, the typical stupid American, shoved into his place before evading his responsibilities.

Taimur is so much more than that.

“Tomás,” José warns low under his breath. Nathan says nothing because he understands that Aidan is Taimur’s voice of reason and he’s not here so it’s futile to argue Taimur off of this ledge.

“My phone is not silent, _gentlemen_ because I am monitoring an ongoing terrorist attack while playing happy Nations with you all. My _‘arrogante Haltung’_ is simply because I am not a washed-up old empire with dreams of valor.” The second sentence he spits toward Prussia.

* * *

What must be understood about the first fifteen states, the ones that stretched along the eastern seaboard and were raised all at the same time, of which only Maya, the Island State of Hawai’i, is excluded from in this narration, is that there is a lot of hatred and resentment built up underneath most of their fear for the outside world.

You see, _Alfred_ got to go help in global conflicts. _Alfred_ got to argue and defend the rights of their citizens and pave the way for their immigrants. _Alfred_ got the recognition and got to develop the relationships the States have only dreamt of.

There’s only so long that you can stand on the shores of Ellis Island, watching immigrants weep and sob as they leave their boats and are turned away with the prospect of returning to a Nation you only know so much about.

And if all you can do is try to make their lives better while they’re yours and not _theirs_ , and not join the rescue teams because to do so would draw too much attention, when, for the safety of your family, you need to invite no speculation.

You have years of trauma from your immigrants who become your people and their stories become yours; they melt in your melting pot until it’s all just _you_. And you lost them just as surely as _Alfred_ did, but that doesn’t matter because you’re a secret and secrets can’t have feelings.

Well, you’d be angry too.

* * *

The room is silent.

Nathan blandly takes a large sip of his water. The little polar bear under his chair chuffs in laughter.

Taimur keeps his eyes locked on Prussia even when he feels José staring at him.

The rest of the Nations are looking right at Taimur too. It’s still quiet enough that Taimur can hear Aidan’s voice in the hallway saying, “Maya, don’t you dare go in there.”

Sure enough, the double doors closest to Taimur burst open revealing Maya standing boldly in the door frame. Aidan appears over her shoulder, his jaw tight in annoyance.

Taimur blinks. “Is that Caleb’s sweatshirt?”

Maya pauses as she approaches and then glances down at her chest which is covered by an Ohio State University sweatshirt. She glances back up at him and raises an eyebrow. “Obviously, he thought I was going to freeze on my way over here.”

Germany makes an abortive step toward Maya but is stopped when she glances over to him, looks him up and down, frowns, and hums in disappointment. “Who are you supposed to be?”

“Maya,” Aidan says, long-suffering from behind her.

“Ludwig Beilschmidt,” Germany introduces himself.

Maya looks him up and down again. “Hmm.”

“You need clearance to be in this room,” Germany continues.

She actually laughs at this and walks past him to sit in Aidan’s unoccupied seat. When Germany is still staring at her after she sits, she stops and stares at him. “Wait, were you serious? Man, I left that shit back in Honolulu.”

"Well, could you go get it? You need it to be in this room."

Maya stares at him for a long moment. The entire room seems to be holding its breath. "I'm sorry, where the fuck do you think Honolulu is?" When Germany is silent, Maya snaps, "It’s in Hawai'i."

“Why would your clearance badge for the UN building be in Hawai'i?” Germany bites out.

"Because I live there?"

"You live in Hawai'i?"

"Yes, what other State would I be?"

"You are wearing an Ohio State sweatshirt," Taimur points out.

"Taimur. Maya," Aidan tries.

"Do I look like I'm _Ohio?"_ She swivels back in her chair to glare at Germany. "And no I'm not going to get my badge just to prove to you I have more right to be in this room than _literally_ anyone else here."

The Nation that Taimur suspects to be either Ireland or Iceland speaks up from the other side of the table. "Are you a State delegate, is that why you have access to this room?"

"I wasn't aware the UN dealt with State delegates," one of the other European Nations further down the table mutters.

"Maya," Aidan tries again.

"They don't," Maya scoffs, completely ignoring Aidan.

"Maya," Taimur says softly aghast.

"Then just who are you?" Germany demands.

"The State of Hawai'i."

 _"Maya!"_ Aidan says sharply.

"What Aidan?" Maya asks confusion lacing through her voice. Taimur feels his stomach grow cold in terror. Maya just— she just—

Aidan looks furious from where he's standing at the head of the table. He smiles with an edge of mania and a whole heaping of anger. "Oh, now you hear me. Oh good, I just thought I would try to get your attention before you admitted _national secrets at an International conference."_

Maya blinks again and the whole room is silent. Taimur feels everyone's eyes back on him.

Quietly, slowly, almost as if she's begging that she misheard Aidan, Maya says, "An International conference."

"Yes, Maya," Aidan snaps and points past Taimur to José. Maya follows his finger and stares doe-eyed at José.

 _She's never met any other Nation besides Matt and José,_ Taimur realizes.

"Oh," she says, her voice small. "I thought— you and Tom… Nathan… I thought it was okay."

Aidan looks like he’s about to burst a blood vessel in his face. He points dramatically at Germany, who only looks slightly perturbed at this turn of events. “Who did you think he was?”

“He said his name was Ludwig! There’s more than _one_ Ludwig in the world!”

Aidan splutters while Taimur only says, “Maya, oh my g—d.”

She looks to him, her eyebrows are drawn into the center of her forehead, her eyes big. Taimur shakes his head at her in wonder and half-whispers, “I’m acting D.C., Maya.”

“No one told me that!” she exclaims hysterically.

“Chloe texted!”

“I left my phone in San Diego!”

 _This is it,_ Taimur thinks as Aidan and Maya devolve the argument into what exactly Maya thought she was walking into, _this is how two hundred plus years of secret-keeping get destroyed. Because someone left their phone behind._

Germany, the party-pooper, clears his throat and cuts into Aidan’s monologue of swears to ask, “Could you, perhaps, enlighten us as to the nature of the misunderstanding, as, Miss, you still don’t have proof of access to be in this room.”

José mutters what Taimur thinks is a hail Mary under his breath in Spanish and then raises his hand. “I can vouch for them, pains in the asses though they are.”

“José,” Aidan tries.

“Noted,” Germany says dryly, “but while _you_ may be comfortable with divulging your information in front of them, the rest of us are not—”

“The meeting is almost done,” José defends.

“I’m more interested in the fact that she claims to be a location,” Prussia interjects, causing a plethora of nodding heads up and down the table. “Which is an impossibility.”

“She could be a micronation,” one of the Nordic Nations pipes up.

“All three of them?” another one accuses.

Aidan could probably get out of the room first and Maya’s fast so she’d probably be second. Taimur and Nathan are both burdened by distance and a polar bear respectively, so they’d be last. José would probably make sure they all got out easy peasy, and Taimur keeps getting a vibe from the Ireland/Iceland Nation that they’d also help.

“America doesn’t have a micronation, though, and not to mention _three_.”

Once they get out of the room, it’s just a matter of getting to the secure rooms on the next floor. Hopefully, if they’re far enough away the enchantment will take over and obscure this memory for everyone involved.

“He has that one in one of his states, Molossia or something,” the same Nordic Nation remarks again.

If that doesn’t work, Taimur has pepper spray and Aidan definitely has the taser he lied to Paige about returning.

“You know,” Nathan says casually underneath the ensuing argument, just loud enough for Maya and Taimur to hear him, “you guys only came up with the policy because CT, Rhode, and D.C. had to juggle eleven newborns during a tumultuous war of independence and then more children while trying to prove themselves to the entire outside world, during a time where any Nation could easily sweep in and steal one of the children and thus the territory.”

When neither of them reacts to that, Nathan actually looks at them, “None of you are younger than a hundred years old and are pretty well secure in your place in your Union. Besides, we were waiting for Brooks and Nanouk to get a little older before we started talking about revealing ourselves. Figures you guys would do it first.”

Taimur swivels his head to José who is looking back at him. José makes eye contact with him and then nods.

Taimur then looks back toward where Aidan is standing. Aidan looks at him and signs, _Go?_

 _Not yet_ , he signs back.

He takes a deep breath and stands, effectively drawing all attention to himself, yet again.

_G—d, if this goes sideways, I’ll never be trusted to be acting-D.C. again._

“Nations,” he addresses the scowling faces around him, “we have been remiss in our introductions. May I reintroduce myself as Taimur Jones, State of New York. And my sister, Maya Jones, State of Hawai’i, and my brother, Aidan Jones, State of New Jersey.”

* * *

France is still talking; “and honestly, Alfred, you are not the first nor the last one of us to have this situation come up. I’m just impressed they’ve lasted this long.” When Owen looks at him, France doesn’t look murderous or conniving like Owen had half expected. Instead, the ageless Nation looks oddly sentimental and wistful.

England is looking at France with soft concern, but now Matthew has joined Alfred in standing in puffed-up outrage.

“ _Excuse_ _me_ very much, I’m sure,” Alfred snarls followed closely by Matthew snapping, “If this is going to be you equating _this_ with your colonial heydays, you can shove it right up your—”

“Wow, party in the waiting room,” a new and familiar voice breaks into the discussion.

Alfred’s jaw shuts, clicks audibly, and as a group, everyone turns to look at the newcomer. Zach stands there, a placid smile on zir face. “Might I suggest we move this little discussion into the conference room my sibling has reserved for us all?”

Zach doesn’t wait for a response before turning and walking away from the group because as much as ze and Sam dislike the comparisons, they are really the same type of dramatic. The three of them move instantly, Taylor running ahead to catch Zach’s hand. Alfred and the rest move slowly behind them.

As they all file into the conference room, Sam is sitting at the head of the long table, their crutches leaning on the wall behind them. Owen and Sarah both rush toward them to give them a twin hug before sitting next to them. Zach and Taylor are gossiping in ASL as they sit on the other side of the table. Alfred sits next to Taylor and Matt next to Sarah, effectively between England and France and the rest of the table, leaving the last two seats at the foot of the table for the two Nations.

With everyone settled, Sam dramatically leans forward with a knife-edge smile, “Gentlemen, I believe some introductions are in order.”

The room is silent.

England and France look slightly apprehensive but mostly curious as they continue to make eye contact with Sam.

“I’ll go first,” Sam says brightly, “I am Sam Jones, State of Connecticut.”

The room is even quieter after that declaration. France’s jaw has actually dropped. Before anyone can tack on their introductions, England turns a very interesting shade of enraged red and demands loudly, “What the fuck?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: Blue (truth) - Hawaiian
> 
> People Like Us We Gotta Stick Together- currently an in progress account of the American War of Independence and touches on the colonial period and how the 13 colonies ended up as one cohesive nation.
> 
> Sarah uses Navajo code (No-da-ih Klizzie-yazzie. Ma-e Gah.), a military code developed in the early 20th century to deter Japanese spies interpreting English-speaking radio waves
> 
> 1713 was the end of Queen Anne's war, one of the French and Indian Wars preceding the American War of Independence.
> 
> 1687 was the creation of the Dominion of New England and effectively when Connecticut and Rhode Island started to hide/lie about their existence (see: Twist of Fate ('cause we're going down) and Pickles)


End file.
